Robert Hernandez and his fellow firefighters had just finished a round of physical training Sept. 20 at Howard Forest Station in Willits. They were all exchanging high fives when Hernandez turned to a Cal Fire official who, instead of celebrating with him, put him in handcuffs. Hernandez, 38, was placed under arrest for setting five fires over the course of four weeks near the Sonoma County towns of Geyserville, Windsor, and Healdsburg.
A week later, Hernandez was tense and animated, describing the moment of his arrest from behind plexiglass at the Sonoma County Detention Facility in Santa Rosa. Gesturing to a manila folder stuffed with court documents and news clippings, he proclaimed his innocence.
“If we were buds and you knew me, you would say this is bullshit,” he said.
Over the course of a 30-minute interview, Hernandez, who goes by Bobby, talked about his life, job, and confusion about the circumstances that led to his arrest. It was an accusation that was baffling — why would someone who battles fires for a living start one, let alone five? — but not uncommon, given how many firefighters are arrested for arson every year.
On the way to jail, he said, the investigators asked him if he got sexual gratification from setting fires, or if he just did it for the overtime pay. When a call for an active vegetation fire came over the radio, Hernandez asked them, “Do you think I set that one, too?”
Prior to his arrest, Hernandez — who became a firefighter while serving time for a 2017 conviction for vehicular manslaughter — had been looking forward to a promotion to captain; he planned to work with inmate firefighters like he once was.
If that’s to happen now, he’ll have to clear his name. He has dipped into his retirement savings to retain an attorney. During the conversation, he was open about many topics but largely declined to talk about the allegations against him: five counts of arson, with enhancements related to his prior felony and the fact that the fires were set during a state of emergency. Hernandez said the allegations are unthinkable. He believes the case will be dropped. He’s being held without bail until an Oct. 11 hearing.
From inmate to firefighter
Hernandez and his siblings grew up poor in Southern California.
“I came from the gutter,” he said.
His father died of cancer at age 39. Drug addiction afflicted his family, but his oldest sister held them together. He went to high school in Paso Robles and later worked as a union plumber.
In 2016, he was charged for a DUI hit-and-run collision that killed a woman crossing a street in San Bernardino. He was sentenced to six years in prison.
“I carry that weight every day,” he said of the death, adding that he keeps a picture of the victim in his wallet.
In 2018, while incarcerated, Hernandez volunteered for the Conservation Camp, a joint program between the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation and Cal Fire. For eight months, he was stationed at the Bishop-area Owens Valley Conservation Camp, where he worked on a handcrew, aiding fire agencies by building firelines — dangerous work in exchange for time shaved off his sentence.
While on parole the following year, he enrolled in a 10-month training and certification program in Ventura for formerly incarcerated firefighters that qualifies graduates for entry-level jobs with local, state, and federal agencies.
He passed — but only barely, he said, because a field trainer harassed him about his incarceration. Hernandez said the trainer was fired.
“No one was fired; however, we do not comment on personnel matters,” a Cal Fire spokesperson commented.
Not long thereafter, Hernandez took a $320 cab ride to his assignment in Willits to start his new career. As he rose through the ranks, he learned to keep his past to himself.
Secure in his new job and living in Healdsburg, he finally had his record expunged. He married and had a daughter. Another child is on the way. After his arrest, his wife told a television news crew they had separated.
At his post, Hernandez handled a range of responsibilities, from setting prescribed fires to responding to emergencies. A girl died in his arms when he was responding to a vehicle collision, a memory that haunts him.
His career has coincided with a rise in fires across the state. This year alone, there have been 112 wildfires that have each burned more than 300 acres, a 724% increase over the five-year average.
Many of those are caused by people.
According to Cal Fire, about 15% of wildfires are started by arsonists. But in 2024, about half of the 1 million acres that have burned were the result of arson. Most of that is attributed to the largest recorded wildfire in California history, the 430,000-acre Park fire, which tore through Butte and some of Tehama County. It was set by a man who pushed a flaming car into a gulley known as “Alligator Hole” near Chico.
‘The betterment of the forest’
Firefighter arson has been a reported problem since the 1800s, but its true reach is unclear: National authorities don’t track cases.
In 2016, the National Volunteer Fire Council reported that more than 100 firefighters are arrested on arson charges per year, a tiny fraction of the more than 1 million firefighters in the U.S.
Edward Nordskog has thought a lot about arsonists — and especially about firefighter arsonists. Nordskog spent 35 years as a detective with the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, 21 of which were with the arson and bomb unit. He worked on 1,200 arson cases. He’s writing a book, his eighth, about the unsolved murders of firefighters by serial arsonists. During his research, he identified 13 arsonists — four of whom were firefighters — who were never brought to justice.
Nordskog said fire service employees generally set fires for selfish reasons: either recognition or money earned from overtime work putting out the fires they start. But the biggest reason, according to Nordskog, is a perverse kind of altruism.
“It’s usually bullshit, but they say, ‘I’m doing it so my guys can get some training,’” said Nordskog, who has studied at least 200 firefighter arson cases and worked on a dozen himself. “These guys who do this don’t want to be viewed as somebody sick or twisted — that’s how people perceive serial arsonists — so they’ll still give that face-saving motive.
“They say, ‘I’m doing it for the betterment of the forest.’”
Nordskog says there’s another reason firefighters start fires, a mundane reason: boredom. Fire service work, particularly for small departments, doesn’t match the stories of adventure promised in the academy, where, he said, recruits are told, “You’re gonna be slaying the dragon every day, [and] the guy who’s talking is this old chief with a big mustache, he’s got a burnt up fire helmet on his head.”
The average U.S. firefighter combats only a handful of structure fires a year. Most calls are for car crashes and medical emergencies.
“Then all the problems that follow bored firefighters come to light — fighting in the firehouse, wife swapping, gambling, stealing, extreme hazing, issues nobody will tell you about — and then, eventually, someone starts lighting fires,” Nordskog said. “Usually, the local fire guys know almost right away that it’s one of theirs.”
Alan Carlson, a retired Cal Fire investigator who nabbed a volunteer firefighter in a hallmark case called Operation High Desert, said almost a third of wildland arsonists arrested are connected to emergency services.
“It may be that teenage boy whose father is with law enforcement, or it could be somebody that’s an explorer scout learning to become a police officer and those types of things. Or it could just be, which is most frequent, a volunteer firefighter,” he said.
Most firefighters in the U.S. are volunteers.
‘I know fire’
In the Sonoma County Detention Facility, Hernandez waits impatiently for a lawyer, for a bail hearing, for his day in court. He badly wants his freedom. “I’m all about my family, community, and service. In that order,” he said.
Hernandez may be a candidate for a mental health diversion, since first responders suffer from post-traumatic stress, according to legal experts observing the case.
However his case turns out, Hernandez knows it’s a black eye for Cal Fire and inmate firefighter programs. After his arrest in September, the leader of Cal Fire Local 2881, the union representing much of the agency’s 12,000 employees, said the inmate firefighting program is “no longer viable.”
Meanwhile, he continues to profess his love for the job. He’s certainly been marked by it.
“I know fire,” Hernandez said, pulling up the sleeve of his blue uniform to show burns on his right arm. “We fight fire with fire.”